A Sweet Trap
by candycanepower
Summary: Oneshot. Iceland, posing as a prince-doll, sits and waits for his brother to return. With loneliness all around him, he is left to weep in misery. That is, until unexpected visitors arrive with news. Iceland/Norway and Denmark.


**CCP:** I had a very depressing muse and I wanted to write something like this. I almost forgot how to write fanfics orz Wow. I suck. I posted this on livejournal, btw. username: dinoturtle

A Sweet Trap

The boy with locks of silver is sitting on a large chair he deems as his throne. His skin is as fair as a fine porcelain doll that entices viewers from beyond the display glass. Velvet drapes down from the golden rails of the upper throne, adorning it emphasize the presence of His majesty. He is donned in silk clothes and a purple cape wraps around his shoulders protectively. A reminiscent bow, as white as the snow that is drifting down outside, is tied around his little neck. A sparkling crown on his head tilts, but remains perched on its master's head. He leans on an arm, shifts a leg over the other and then stares at the emptiness in front of him with eyes hued with brilliant blue-violet.

Around him, he is in a room painted in the color of gold. Rich red curtains hung from the white panels that allow the view of the snowy vista outside. The peach-colored floor, made out of what seems like marble, reflects the brazen light of the chandeliers. The small iridescent crystals sparkled brilliantly with so much vigor and beauty. There were many rows of benches on both sides, beautifully symmetrical (he never understood why it is there, but assumes that it is for his subjects to sit and listen). On the walls, there are strange pictures of men who have glowing light behind him – he has a nice face and eyes look very kind. He seems to be the very same man who is nailed on two sticks– he wonders why such a nice looking man is nailed.

Ah well. He is a little boy in a grand audience room. But within the room, only silence remains with Iceland but he does not mind, for he enjoys uttering silence. Though, according to His majesty, the silence did not suffice enough as company. The spirits of loneliness chuckled by the boy's side, as if they were irksome ministers. He ignores them and simply keeps his eyes at the door across from his seat. He waits for someone to come in.

For many years, he was isolated, yet he still is. A frail little boy in white attire was born from the frost of the snow. Life bloomed as he inhaled the breath of nature and around him. Flowers are curious little things, they were, that peeked its colored head up from the snow. When the snow melted away, there was a lot of sunlight and he remembered seeing all the animals that frolicked through the meadows. It was a happy, lonely haven of his.

Then he remembers the first footsteps of another's foot. He called him 'stór bróðir'.

It was a man in strange clothing. He had eyes as blank as the blue, yet cloudy, sky that blankets around Iceland's world. He recalls his younger self staring into those mysterious eyes for a very long time, trying to unravel the hidden messages. Yes, the man he called 'stór bróðir' remained with him for a very long time. Through Norway, his child self learned about the world beyond the nests of puffins and the sea. Sometimes, the man told him these vignettes called 'fairytales' and all sorts of things that appealed to children, such as himself back then. As he grew up, he became dependent on him and loved him like no other.

Iceland exhales and then runs his slender gloved fingers through his hair; it is a habit that would follow after a simple sigh. He is becoming bored because he came to the conclusion that today is going to be like yesterday and the day before. Perhaps like the month before as well. The man he called 'stór bróðir' left some time ago, long ago, on a trip is what he said. He can clearly recall Norway telling him that he will return, but so far, there is not another entity or a soul there to accompany him. Though, Norway did give him gifts; the crown on his head, the cape around his shoulders, the throne draped with velvet and the whole audience room was all given to him. The boy only accepted it because it came from his benevolent brother for if it was given to him by any other, he would have not taken it.

He prefers a nice warm cabin made out of wood with a hearth full of flame. Hrísgrjónagrautur would be cooking in the pot and its fragrance would linger in the room and be inhaled. Such a warm fantasy makes him yearn for company – for a voice to care and tend for his broken and forlorn heart. The room he is in is too stuffy for him – the floor is too cold and the gleam of the room seems to look dull after many months of living in it. The clothes he wears still feels so foreign – where in the world did silk come from anyway? He stiffly learns back on the chair and then feels the tick etching down in his neck area and arm. Iceland decides to take his eyes off the door and then stares miserably at his lap.

Nobody ever comes because nobody ever cares. Only Norway cares but he has been gone for much too long. Hope is a frail thing – as frail as Iceland's body– that can be shattered through neglect. It is easy to neglect, he supposes, because at the moment, he is neglecting to watch the door. It is as easy as blowing out a candle to go to sleep and then forgetting about it in the morning. It is as easy as shattering glass.

His eyes close and then he buries his sullen face in his hands. The priceless golden crown falls off his head and then rolls on the marble floor. He did not care. It was becoming a burden on his head.

Blinded and deafened by his own loneliness, he did not hear gentle footsteps approaching. He did not hear the soft hand that picks up the crown – the very same hand that touched his face as a child. Suddenly, he feels something slightly heavy on his head. It was as if the object never left his head at all. The boy, suddenly cautious, yet still drunk with misery, slowly moves his hands away from his face and then peers up at this mysterious force. It is a man. A boy. A nation.

He has eyes as blank as the blue, yet cloudy, sky. He wore clothes in what looks like armor of some sort. A sword, fastened in the belt around his waist, like a brilliant knight. "You dropped this, lillebror." And then he pets Iceland's silky white hair gingerly with his delicate fingers.

Iceland feels his soul alleviate with the upmost happiness. There is a new weight that was placed upon his head and that is hope.

"S-Stór bróðir!" He cries as he stands up and hugs the man. It was the first time he spoke in ages. The crown falls again, rolls down his heavy purple cape, and then lands on the seat nicely. His shoulders ache because of the weight of the cape and his legs feel wobbly from the eternity of sitting, waiting, but such little details did not make him stagger. Norway's armor is so cold because he was outside in the cold, but to him, it is the warmest sensation he could ever ask for. "I've waited so long for you to come. I never thought that you would come…" Chaste tears trickles down his cheek – tears that no one ever saw besides Norway.

Norway returns the hug and then pets the younger nation's head in a very slow, melancholic way. His face remains the same expression, from the moment he stepped in the audience room and at this moment. Not a smile on his lips. "I'm sorry, lillebror, there was trouble and I could not see you. Many things happened, you see…"

"You don't have to explain, I understand," says Iceland with trust fluttering in his eyes as he steps away from the man to speak, "You will stay here with me, will you? Stór bróðir, this place is so huge an empty."

Because it has been so long that Iceland uttered a word, he pours his heart into all of his words, mouthing them with the energy he did not release during his time of waiting. "No one came, no one ever came. It's been silent in this place for so long that I almost forgot to speak your language. Let us move closer to Lake Mývatn so we can visit it a lot, or maybe go fishing sometimes." He is oblivious that he wants and acts like a little prince.

He stares at Norway during the midsilence and then waits for a reply. He becomes a little nervous that he spoke too much since the older Nation spoke almost little to nothing. With confidence, he urges in a feeble voice, "Noregur?" He meant to say 'Norge' but for some reason, he added more words.

Norway stares at the boy and then gives him a small, saddened smile. At the first glance, Iceland's heart flutters but after he inspected that smile, he stiffens with surprise. Both nations exchange silence.

"Island…." He says, finally.

Iceland's shoulders relax a bit after hearing him speak. He was afraid that what he saw is a dream. He shudders though because he did not hear anyone call his real name for a long time. He gives his full attention to Norway by staring at his cloudy blue eyes.

Norway hesitates and then says, "Ah… We cannot do that. We cannot do that because I cannot see you anymore. You are not under my possession anymore. Our ties are broken." He spoke fluently, stoically, relentlessly with the full assertion that his words will shatter this boy. Norway did not intend it – no, he would never, ever intend to hurt Iceland. What he said… is the truth. "You have a new brother now. He is much stronger than I."

The boy with white hair stares at the older one with his glass blue-violet eyes. He stares to the side, avoiding Norway's eyes and then takes a step sideways to try and redeem himself. The crown that was resting on the hem of his long cape was dragged off the seat. It rolls down the steps once again; the impact sounds like shattering glass. The glass of his eyes shatter once another tear streaks down his cheek. "You're lying…"

Norway was afraid to hear that. He wants to pursue the topic until Iceland finally understands. He thinks the boy is a grown nation, fully capable enough of understanding things on his own. He did not know that he is oblivious, more oblivious than anyone for not understanding the timeframe of separation between him and Iceland.

"Denmark. He has the full custody." He utters, pain seeping from the sharpness of his own words. "He is better. He gave you all of these gifts. Perhaps if you ask, he will give you the money and gold to build another palace closer to Lake Mývatn." Of course, if the oaf does not agree, Norway would have to use force to make him say yes. He speaks out of desperation. No trick, not a ruse. He is desperate to make Iceland happy one more time.

Iceland wipes away his tears and then glares at Norway for the first time. "You do not understand." He answers sharply, yet sadly. "You do not understand and you will never understand!" His indignant cry echoed in the grand room and then faded into a soft whimper, like the sound of the wind. Blinded and deafened by his own loneliness, he did not hear another's footstep; they were heavy footsteps.

Iceland looks straight to see another man – a tall, strongly built looking man with an expression brighter than the iridescent shards of light from the chandelier.

"This place sure is nice, isn't it Norge? I'm really surprised." He croons with a grin, "I knew this place would look good. Ah!" He scrambles over to Iceland and smiles widely at him. Apparently, he does not notice the wet trail on his porcelain cheeks. "Iceland, huh? You're seriously cute. Just like Norge!"

"Shut up, you." Norway replies, his eyes full of scorn and disdain at the older-looking man. He turns his cheek away and then mutters, "Introduce yourself properly. If you do anything to hurt him, I'll kill you." His sentence was spoken flatly as well. He knows that it was not possible for Iceland to be hurt any further. He proceeds to walk away.

His back is facing the 'throne' as he walks down the red carpet to the door. Norway feels icy glares on his back, but he does nothing. He says nothing as he pushes the door forward to exit, not looking back.

Dammit, he still hears that moron talk – why is his voice so loud? Denmark, that knucklehead. That oaf.

The walls were not painted with real gold – it is just some fake color he picked up. He floor is not actually made out of marble – it is just some cheaper material that looks like it. All imitations. The velvet is something left over of Denmark's clothes because he bought too much of it. The throne is just an object left over from the Kingdom of Denmark. Everything that Iceland is wearing, it is just some hand-me-downs. He knows because he was there and he picked it out for him.

Norway walks down the halls slowly, mutely. It was within seconds and he is already outside in the snow.

A palace? No, more like a little Lutheran church. He feels sad that Iceland was played by, like a little pretend-prince on strings, by Denmark. His eyes became cloudier as something cold and wet went down his cheeks. Norway gazes up at the sky and then opens the palm of his hand. That's right, it is still snowing.

He was part of the conspiracy as well. A sweet trap.

_

* * *

  
_

_Notes:  
· Lake Mývatn: A beautiful lake in Iceland.  
· Lutheran church: King Christian iii of Denmark imposed Lutheran subjects in Iceland and wiped out the Catholic religion.  
· The Treaty of Kiel separated Denmark and Norway but Iceland remained as Danish property.  
· 'Noregur', Icelandic for 'Norway'.  
· "It's been silent in this place for so long that I almost forgot to speak your language." Icelandic is similar to the Norwegian language because its roots came from Norway.  
· 'Lillebror', Norwegian for 'Little brother'.  
· 'Stór bróðir', Icelandic for 'Big brother'.  
· Nice-looking man: Jesus Christ.  
· Hrísgrjónagrautur – Icelandic Soup  
· Extra: There is actually some factual information but the whole concept was inspired by 'Sweet Trap' by vocaloid Megurine Luka._


End file.
